#2 post in the Contemplations series
It is riveting how you barely know whom the person you talk to on a regular basis actually is. You can talk with them about the weather, the boring class you’re following or you can tell them about your family history. Yet they will never know how dishonest you’re being, whether it is with them or with yourself.
It is intriguing how a face can be the greatest liar of all time giving the largest smile. Why do people perceive your uproarious jokes and not your downward gaze when you hear some confusing words? Do they look away from the hurting only to give attention to bliss? Why is pain so overlooked?
How can people be so blind? Body language seems inaccurate in terms of bleak emotions. Appearance rarely uncovers any truth.
And still, you hate having to pretend ; you hate how pretending became almost a natural task. And you are sick of all the lies that keep being told. Deep down, the unspoken words, getting heavier as days pass, are about to erupt. Your entire life seems to always have revolved around them.
Does self-hide makes it your fault? Is it your own shortcoming? Or does a part lies in your close-ones’ responsibility? Doesn’t being a close-one also means pressuring them into taking the right path when need be? Would it signify, to a small extent, a lack of interest?